Suffocating under feather pillows while
death screamed overhead, dust clogged
the air, dried her lips. Her dress, that morning
freshly pressed, streaked with blood, dirt,
sweat. This is not what Rose wanted. They
said war was glory, not mud and misery.
Why should she stand out there in the
yard, pouring water over dying men?
They tried to smile when they saw her,
so many men jolting down this dark, dusty
road whom she knew so well, so many men
dying before her yes, mosquitoes and
gnats swarming their bloody faces, men
with whom she had danced, laughed,
for whom she had played music, sung
songs, teased, comforted, and loved–
a little.